


Teas and More Than Teas

by WriteDreamLie



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Gotham (TV), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Bing Translations, Fluff and Angst, M/M, NaNoWriMo 2016, Night Vale: Post-Epsiode 73 Triptych, Nygmobblepot, One-shots of fluff, Still not a crossover, Will add more fandoms as I write them, cecilos - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:46:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8552353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteDreamLie/pseuds/WriteDreamLie
Summary: A series of one-shots about some of my favorite fictional couples. Needed some cute. The title references both Joseph Fink's "These and More Than These," and the fact that when planning these, a lot of them had to do with tea.





	1. Prayers Unanswered

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter directly inspired by Joseph Fink's "These and More Than These." 
> 
> "The old church down the street,  
> concrete beneath my feet,  
> the shadows of the leaves,  
> these and more than these..."

The rubble crunched below the angel’s feet, barely more than dust now. It had been so long. And there was no way to go back to the way things were.

Sometimes Aziraphale was glad for that. Certainly the world was better off now than it had been back in those days, right? People were healthier, happier. And he, too, was happier. Usually.

Today had been a rough one. Hardly a minute out his own front door, and suddenly there were disasters all around him. He could hear children dying in distant hospitals, homes, parents screaming… Young men and women despairing over things that were never trivial in the moment… Older humans despairing over things that were never trivial in the long run… Even the deaths that happened peacefully were no balm, just a new kind of resignation, sadness, letting go…

These days were rare, but they crept up on him now and then. He was an angel after all, and they were supposed to be there in times of need. Sometimes, when Aziraphale got comfortable and cozy at home with a good book and a warm cup of tea, he would slip into a divine state of mind and get lost in the need.

Wasn’t he supposed to help people? Give them hope, if not salvation? What had he become in his time on Earth? He couldn’t even properly feel like an angel most days. And usually that was okay. They didn’t need him Up There anyway, and he preferred it that way.

But today, the despair found him, surrounded him, it was all he could hear, all he could feel. Behind it all was the guilt, the feeling that he should be helping. He didn’t know which was harder to bear.

This had been a church once, this pile of rubble. Recently, at least in the Grand Scheme, it had been demolished for some business to build over it. He’d been in the habit of coming by, waving distantly, as if greeting old friends. How long ago was that, now? Maybe a hundred years, maybe four or five, he couldn’t even be bothered to think about that right now.

All he could see was the rubble, a miniscule amount of which had been a beautiful church once. The kind with high ceilings, painted in bright colors, with many lights hanging from it. The tall ceiling had only been matched by the tall, stained glass windows, depicting angels Aziraphale didn’t know personally, but that the humans pretended to.

He paused beneath a street lamp and looked up into it, imagining the blinding lights under the bright ceiling, imagining the holy light he could hardly remember anymore.  
He loved Earth, and a lot of the things on it. He did. But right now, it all seemed too much.

The voices, the cries, the prayers, all came at him at once. He threw his hands over his ears, but it didn’t help, of course. It wasn’t real sound, not in the normal way that humans understood it. It was all going directly into his head. That’s how angels worked. Was it how Aziraphale still worked? Did it have to be?

_Why?_

“Angel?”

The silence came back for just a second, long enough for Aziraphale to open his eyes and realize he was on his knees in the gravel, on an empty street next to what was no longer a church with one bright-eyed demon kneeling in front of him.

Then the flood returned, and he shut his eyes again.

Above the cacophony, he sensed rather than heard shuffling, perhaps the juggling of things in cool, lithe hands. Then one of those hands was on his arm, pulling him up.

“No, please, just a minute,” the angel begged. He hadn’t meant it to come out like begging. He’d meant it to be just a quiet request. How loud was he being? He couldn’t tell with his hands over his ears and the sounds of sadness in his head.

“Angel,” said Crowley’s strong, authoritative voice, the one he usually reserved for his plants. “Stand up, now.”

He did.

“Now, give me your hand.”

Aziraphale hesitated, then slowly extended one hand. The sounds in his head got neither louder, nor quieter. His hand was taken carefully by one of Crowley’s, the fingers pried open, and something round and warm set into them.

The angel opened his eyes. He was now holding a bright green Starbucks cup in the hand that was not covering his other ear.

“What?” he managed to ask.

Crowley moved in front of him, forcing the angel to meet his snake-like eyes. He set his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, nudging his other hand off his ear. “I thought maybe you could use some tea,” said the demon quietly. “And good thing I found you when I did. What’s wrong, Angel?”

“I’m… having an Angelic crisis, I think?” Aziraphale offered. He’d never thought to really define what was happening when it happened, but that sounded about right. Certainly the crisis part anyway.

“And what does that entail?” Crowley asked, trying to sound conversational.

Aziraphale thought for a second. “Hearing things. Prayers, cries from everywhere, everyone. Like I’m supposed to answer them, but I’m not, I can’t. It’s just sort of residual, I guess.”

“Hmm,” Crowley observed astutely. He reached down to pick up his own Starbucks cup, took a long sip, then slipped his free hand into Aziraphale’s.

“Let’s go for a walk, then. Get this restless Angelic silliness out of your mind.”

Aziraphale almost protested at the silliness bit, but as the demon led him away from the crunch of the church, the not-church, the dust in the gravel, he realized a handful of things in quick succession that took precedence.

The first was that it was quiet again. The voices weren’t just distant as he sometimes realized they were when he was alone in the bookshop. They were silent, gone. Thank goodness, he thought, maybe a little sacrilegiously, but gratefully all the same.

The second was that Crowley had remembered the kind of tea he liked, with the sugar and cinnamon mixed in. He took a sip. It was just cool enough not to burn his tongue, but hot enough to warm him to the core.

The third was that Crowley was talking to him, babbling mostly about his day and the minimalistic demonic things he’d done. More coins on sidewalks, a classic that would never get old. Flickering traffic lights on a busy corner that had most definitely blackened at least a few souls. Along with this realization came the thought that it was for his, Aziraphale’s sake, and that he should probably listen more closely, only he was suddenly distracted by the fourth thing.

The fourth thing was that Crowley was also still holding his hand. And more than that, he was running a thumb over the back of Aziraphale’s hand, making soft, small circles. It was an absentminded gesture to be sure, but made the angel’s stomach do a little flip anyway.

“…think you want to head home, Angel?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale took another sip of tea to hide the fact that he hadn’t been listening at all. Given Crowley’s raised eyebrow, it hadn’t worked. The angel smiled anyway. “Home, you said? Yes, I think that would be a good idea.”

The demon nodded. “Yes, you sound like you could use a rest.”

The circles kept circling. The two kept walking, the dust of the past falling off their shoes with every step. Aziraphale leaned in closer to Crowley as they walked. Crowley didn’t protest.

The fifth thing Aziraphale realized was that this was where he wanted to be. He couldn’t be everywhere for everyone else, and that was okay for now. Maybe he didn’t have to save everyone, or answer every prayer.

Maybe it was enough that he could have his own prayer answered once in a while.


	2. Missed Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After everything that's gone on this season, I really just needed to get this mess over with and get these two together.
> 
> Today's verse also comes from Joseph Fink's "These and More Than These":
> 
> “Blood on my hands but none on my soul,  
> Someday, god willing, I will be whole.  
> And up above I feel the love  
> From every star in the sky…”

Oswald Cobblepot didn’t look at the stars much anymore.

Without straying too far into pun territory, he simply had bigger fish to fry. From the moment he woke up, usually when the sun was too bright to ignore anymore, he had things to do. Responsibilities abounded from both his role as the mayor of Gotham and its kingpin of the underground.

That sounded a little over-dramatic, now he thought about it.

That was another reason Oswald didn’t look at the stars anymore: they were so simple, so peaceful, that it was entirely too easy to get lost in them. His mind would wander, and he’d start to overthink things, things he didn’t usually have to face in the busy daylight.

And yet he couldn’t stop staring. Tonight, Oswald had woken to the sound of nothing, a ringing silence that permeated his dreams and forced him out of them. He hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. It wasn’t the usual fear of nightmares that kept him up, either. His mind just wouldn’t settle.

So he’d come to stand at one of the tall, ornate windows that lined the parlor. The moon seemed unusually bright, leaving spots in Oswald’s vision when he looked away. It nearly drowned out the stars as well, but not quite.

“Oswald?”

Oswald jumped at the voice, quiet, but more than enough to startle him out of his reverie.

“Ed, good evening,” he said, turning to face his chief of staff. “I hope I didn’t wake you?”

“I was awake anyway,” Ed said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I heard you get up a while ago, but I didn’t hear you go back to bed. Wanted to be sure you were doing all right.”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Oswald made an attempt at a smile.

Ed wasn’t buying it. “I’ll make us some tea,” he said, disappearing around the corner before Oswald could protest.

The Penguin wobbled over to the couch and fell unceremoniously onto the cushions. He was only slightly annoyed to find that he was completely beholden to the whims of a tall man who spoke in riddles. Away from the lure of the stars, it was easier to ignore the thought and get back to business.

He knew he had some visiting to do tomorrow. Schools, he remembered. He would have to interact with children, hopefully from afar. Maybe they’d have him on a stage or something. Would he have to give a speech? What could he tell tiny children that wouldn’t end up getting him kicked back out?

Ed reappeared, a cup of tea on a saucer in each hand.

“Chamomile,” he explained, setting both drinks on the coffee table and taking a seat next to Oswald. “Non-caffeinated, so we won’t be up all night. Busy day tomorrow.”

“Yes, I was just thinking about that.” Oswald leaned forward and took one of the cups. The gilded ceramic was warm to the touch. Bringing the cup to his face, he could smell the tiny bit of sweet sugar that had been added to the flowery tea.

“Be careful,” Ed warned. “It’s still pretty hot.”

“I know how to drink tea, Ed,” Oswald said defensively. He took a sip and tried his damnedest to hide the wince as the liquid burned the tip of his tongue.

Ed, graceful as ever, smiled knowingly, but said nothing. He took his own cup and blew on it a few times before taking a drink.

“So, Oswald, what’s been on your mind?” Ed set the half-full teacup back down and shifted to better face his friend.

Oswald shrugged and kept staring at his tea. _Too much,_ he thought. If he held still enough, he could just see the reflection of the window in the tinted liquid in the cup, and through it, hints of stars.

Ed’s hand appeared on his wrist, warm and firm. Oswald finally looked up to meet his eyes.

He regretted it almost immediately. For a moment, he was back on this same couch, the roles reversed. Ed was the one that needed comforting after his fight with Butch, Oswald the one that brought tea to help. And in that moment, much like this one, Oswald had wanted very much to kiss him.

Of course now, much like that moment, he realized that would be very forward and may, in fact, end very badly if Ed didn’t reciprocate. Oswald wasn’t even sure how he’d handle that.

Perhaps he could just say something instead?

“Oswald,” Ed said as his friend remained silent, “I’m sure you have a lot on your mind. It may help to talk it out, especially with your chief of staff, who happens to be quite in control of your schedule and can move things around if there’s too much going on.”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that,” Oswald assured him. He could feel the tea cooling in his hands. His wrist was still caught in Ed’s hand. “I do have a few things I want very much to talk to you about, however…”

Ed, finally realizing his position, took his hand back. He brought the tips of his fingers together in a little steeple and waited patiently for Oswald to go on.

Oswald found he couldn’t. He didn’t have the words prepared, and wasn’t ready to say them on the spot like this. So he shook his head instead.

“No, um, I mean, maybe we can talk them out over dinner tomorrow? Here at the mansion?”

Ed’s smile returned. “Excellent. I’ll pick us up some wine.”

-

The wine shop Ed chose was a small one, but one he knew had a high-quality selection. He browsed the shelves, looking for something suitable.

Oswald tended to drink darker red wines in front of people, as if being able to stand the bitter stuff made him look more intimidating. It didn’t, but he did make some rather cute faces when he thought no one was looking.

No, Ed would bring home something sweeter, something lighter. He pulled a bottle off a tall shelf and examined it. Surely this one wouldn’t cause any odd facial expressions.

Someone came around the corner of the shelves, and for a second, Ed thought he may have recognized the face.

His phone rang. He set the bottle in the crook of his arm, turned away from the other customer, and brought the phone to his ear.

“Yes, Oswald?” He paused to listen to the other man’s voice, made slightly higher by the mechanics of the phone. Ed smiled, nodded, then realized Oswald couldn’t see the nod through the phone. “Yes, I’ll find something lighter. Nothing bitter tonight.”

He ended the call and pocketed the phone again. With one last look at the bottle in his arm, Ed strode confidently away from the isle, thinking of the things he had to say himself.

-

This was not the first time Oswald had practiced the speech. It was not the first time he’d moved his wine glass, his plate, his chair around nervously. He was only glad Ed hadn’t shown up too early, else he may not have had time to try and prepare anything proper at all.

The main body of the speech had changed many times. Sometimes it started with a story about his mother. Sometimes it focused on the need for courage, or action, or simply that he had no other way to say it, that love didn’t have to make sense so long as it was real.

And it was. Every time he practiced, the speech ended the same way: “I love you.”

He couldn’t control the smile that crossed his face every time he said it. And if it was like this just speaking it to a chair, what would it be like to actually say it to Ed?

He almost didn’t hear the taller man come in. Suddenly the words fled once again. He stared dumbly at the bottle of wine that had appeared in the middle of the feast on the table.

“It’s an aged port, nothing too dark though. Is that all right?” Ed asked.

Oswald nodded. “Thank you,” he managed.

“Think nothing of it,” Ed said, pouring them each a glass before taking his seat at the table.

 _Too late,_ Oswald thought. He struggled to remember how to start, searching for the words, any of them at all, but everything was jumbled now. He took a sip of the wine. It was delicious, and somehow calming.

“Everything looks fantastic,” Ed said, examining the variety of foods set out on large platters across the table.

This part Oswald could handle. “I certainly hope you like it. I had Olga make every dish special, a few with my mother’s old recipes.”

“Then I’m sure it’s every bit as good as it looks. Your mother was a smart woman.”

“Yes, she was.” Oswald took another long sip of the wine, then sat the glass down with a _thunk._ He sat up straighter. “She taught me a lot of things, things that have been absolutely invaluable to me. One of which was that when you find love, you need to hold onto it and never let it go.”

At this, Ed paused in his effort to reach one of the vegetable-laden platters. He met Oswald’s wide, still eyes.

Oswald took a deep breath and said, “I love you.”

Ed continued to stare for several seconds, unblinking. His gaze never left Oswald’s face, though the younger man glanced away and back several times.

“It would be nice if you said something back now,” Oswald said shakily.

“I love you, too.”

Now it was Oswald’s turn to stare, wide-eyed across the table. Ed finally pulled his hands away from the platter and rested them in his lap.

And then, to Oswald’s horror, he laughed.

“What’s funny?” Oswald asked, suddenly defensive.

Ed picked up on the tone right away and sobered up. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I didn’t think it would be this easy.”

“Easy?”

“I mean to say that I wasn’t sure if you felt the same at all. I like to think I know you well enough that I would have noticed, but evidently, I’ve got a blind spot in this case.”

 _He was worried I didn’t feel the same way,_ Oswald thought, awestruck. He smiled. “Idiot.”

Ed didn’t argue.

“Вы сделали целоваться еще?” came an annoyed voice from the direction of the kitchen.

“I really need to get a translator,” sighed Oswald, looking down at the table, equally annoyed.

Ed didn’t want to ruin the moment by offering his services. The thought maybe, for the moment, he ought not reveal that he knew enough Russian to understand Olga’s yelling.

He looked from plate to plate, then up to the wine that they’d still barely touched, and finally back to Oswald’s face. He was smiling, suddenly unable to meet Ed’s eyes. Ed gasped.

Oswald started, shaking the table slightly. “What? What happened?”

“I just realized, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before, I really am an idiot…” Ed trailed off. His hands ran through his hair, and he suddenly looked sheepish. “This is a date, isn’t it?”

Oswald did not relax back into his chair. “I mean, I suppose. That was sort of the intention.”

“I should have figured that out earlier. I could have brought something more substantial than a single bottle of wine. Something finer, or flowers maybe…

“Ed, you really don’t have to—“

“I’ll do better next time.”

The most important words of the night, maybe for the rest of his life, had already been said and returned, but this was the statement that made Oswald’s heart skip a beat.

“Next time?”

-

A week later, the two sat at a table outside a café. A stack of empty cups sat on the edge of the small, round table, weighing down a pile of official-looking papers Oswald and Ed were pretending to pore over.

In reality, the pair was just using this as an excuse to sit pressed together, hands joined under the table. Oswald found that Ed’s hands were almost always warm, and more than big enough to completely enclose his own.

At the next shop over, a woman was pushing her way out of the glass-fronted door. She ran violently into another woman whose hands were full of grocery bags, and the food tumbled to the ground.

Ed looked up and recognized the tall coif of bright blond hair from the wine shop, though he couldn’t quite make out the face beneath it. He almost stood to help the women gather their things, or at least to calm the small crowd that had gathered at the sight of the flustered blond.

Oswald held him back with a soft squeeze of their entwined hands. Ed sat back down, and Oswald motioned for one of the bulky guards that were always hidden away somewhere nearby to take care of it.

Ed continued to stare at the woman for a few seconds more, willing her to look up so he could see her face. He was sure he’d seen it somewhere before.

Another tug on his hand brought him back. When he turned to meet Oswald’s eyes, he was instantly drawn away from the woman. And when, after several seconds of deep breathing and nervous blushing, Oswald leaned forward for a slow, soft kiss, the face was forgotten entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SCREW THE CANON, I HAVE FLUFF.
> 
> Seriously, I'm super done with Gotham making this drama so... dramatic. I'm upset that Isabella wasn't something more, I'm still upset that she existed in the first place tbh, but now I'm just so worried. I don't want to see these two fight and hate each other.
> 
> And so the fluff I shall have. 
> 
> Once again, written in a NaNoWriMo-fueled frenzy. Feel free to bitch if it's very OOC or nonsensical or something. Don't care, got my gay villain kiss. 
> 
> ((P.S. Bing told me that was the right translation for the Russian. I know exactly one phrase in the language myself, so plz forgive/correct me if it's wrong.))


	3. Mostly Star, Partially Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cecil gets thoughtful, and maybe a little forgetful. Carlos comes to the rescue.
> 
> Today's lyrics via Joseph Fink's "These And More Than These":
> 
> "I speak in ancient tongues.  
> I stare straight at the sun.  
> What I've done can't be undone.  
> These and more than these..."

They—whoever “they” were anyway—often said it was not a good idea to look at the sun for too long. Supposedly, it hurt your eyes, burned your retinas, and made you go blind if you did it long enough.

None of these things ever happened to Cecil Palmer. For instance, today he was laying outside in his own back yard, hands beneath his head, eyes focused squarely on the bright, fiery ball of light in the sky. The most he was getting out of the experience was a mild tingling behind his eyes and the usual amount of bleeding that came with being outside. He may also have been getting a little sunburn. Nothing unusual there.

Normally, he wouldn’t care to consider the health effects of today’s activity, but he was being, if he had to admit it to himself, a little retrospective. It had been a long night.

The evening before, he’d gone to the studio as usually to do this regular broadcast. He’d gone through recent news, both official and romantic, and had begun moving on to traffic when his broadcast was suddenly interrupted.

Kevin, that fiendish being from across the desert, who may have killed Cecil had he not been so skilled in hand-to-hand combat, had broken in with another broadcast from the desolate dale that was Desert Bluffs.

Only it hadn’t been the Kevin Cecil was so used to loathing with all his being. It had been a younger, fresher Kevin. A Kevin unmarred by the events of the last few years, unowned by Strex Corp. And Cecil found that he felt sorry for this version, the non-murderous, enthusiastic young Kevin who seemed to want to save his town from Strex in the first place.

And then, of course, had come a broadcast from the Kevin that Cecil was all too familiar with. The manic one who enjoyed following orders from Strex more than a little too much.

It had been haunting, and plenty annoying, to hear from this Kevin again. That is until Cecil’s careless words nearly destroyed everything. In the pit of his stomach, he still worried that everything was going to come crashing down at any moment.

Of course, if the well-known documentary Back to the Future was anything to go on, that wasn’t how time worked. As far as Cecil knew, he’d ruined another timeline’s Night Vale, but not this one. That was fine, right?

But really, none of this was the cause if Cecil’s sunlight moping session. It was the last interruption of the night that shook him to his core.

An old Kevin, very old, nearly dying, had somehow broken into the broadcast and spoken. He’d sounded remorseful, and tired. _Sorry._

What could Cecil have done? Could he have saved this wretch of a being from the sad, lonely end he’d apparently found some time in the future? Did Kevin even want to be saved?

Who would want to stay that lonely?

As if hearing these thoughts—Cecil did wonder sometimes if his lovely boyfriend could actually read thoughts and just never wanted to admit such an atrocity to him—Carlos appeared at the door to the back yard. He nudged the door open with his foot, his hands full. One hand held a large pitcher of green-tinted liquid and ice, the other a bundle of cloth, presumably with some other things in it.

Cecil observed all this from his vantage point on the ground, admiring Carlos’s sense of balance, style, and absolute beauty. It wasn’t until the handsome scientist had nudged the door closed again that Cecil thought maybe he wanted some help.

But by the time he’d sat up, Carlos was already kneeling down to set everything on the grass.

“You looked so thoughtful out here, I thought you could use a snack to fuel those existential musings.”

“Aw, you’re sweet!”

Cecil took the pitcher while Carlos unwrapped the rest of the bundle. Packed carefully inside the thick blanket were several sandwiches, all with the crust removed, a small bowl of grapes, and two glasses.

Carlos spread the blanket out, weighing the corners down with the food. Cecil scooted close to his boyfriend and set the pitcher between them.

“What’s this then?” he asked as Carlos began pouring the greenish liquid into the glasses. A few small bits of what looked like tea leaves flew into the cups along with the quickly melting ice cubes.

“Mint tea with ginger,” Carlos replied. He offered a glass to Cecil before pouring his own. “It’s pretty warm today. Thought it might be nice to cool off.”

“Hmm,” Cecil agreed. He took a long sip of the tea. The cool, clean feeling of mint on his tongue lingered long after the ice was gone. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly with a satisfied smile.

“Are you doing okay?” Carlos asked, setting his now half-full cup on the blanket.

Cecil scooted further across the fabric and leaned on Carlos’s shoulder. He didn’t answer at first. The was using his tongue to fold one of the tiny bits of mint into different shapes. He couldn’t tell what the shapes were, but he imagined that they were something like very ornate origami.

He took another gulp of the tea, and the minty art was gone.

“I was just thinking about last night’s broadcast.”

Carlos nodded. “I heard most of it. That was chilling hearing from Kevin during the takeover. Our lab radio cut out at the end though, something to do with spiders in the mechanism, or maybe mechanisms in the spiders? I’m not sure.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to hear the last part anyway,” Cecil said, sighing into his glass. “It was Kevin again, but old and sad, and I couldn’t find him again after that. I wanted to keep talking to _that_ Kevin, the one who sounded like he’d figured himself out at last and wanted to make amends. I wanted to help him, Carlos.” He looked up and into his boyfriend’s beautiful brown eyes. “Do you think we could have been friends?”

“I think you could, yeah. He was certainly ready to bury the hatchet. And not even into anyone’s skull!” Carlos smiled at his attempted joke.

Cecil just shrugged. “Knowing what could have been almost makes it worse. And yet… I suppose it’s nice to be able to dream.”

“Why just dream?” Carlos snagged one of the sandwiches and took a large bite. Peanut butter and jelly squished out the sides of the illegal substance that was the bread.

Cecil ran a hand through his hair. The eye on his forehead peaked open as he did so, then shut tight against the bright day.

“I couldn’t get him back, Carlos. The broadcast cut out. He’s gone, that Kevin that wanted to be saved.”

“Um,” Carlos tried to say through a mouthful of sticky sandwich. He struggled with his own tongue for a moment, then took a long swig of tea, how lukewarm for having been in the sun, and swallowed hard. Once he’d caught his breath, he said, “I don’t know about saved, but he certainly wasn’t opposed to being friends.”

“If I could have just held onto that conversation for a moment longer…”

“Cecil...”

“Who knows? Maybe everything would be different now.”

“Cecil?”

“It might’ve been nice to be friends with my double. Certainly no one else has done that before.”

Carlos took Cecil’s face in his hands. He wondered for just a second how Cecil could feel so cool to the touch after having been out in the sun for so long. And then common sense kicked in, and he let the question go.

Carlos looked deep into Cecil’s troubled eyes, ran his thumbs across cool cheeks, and said, “We know where he is, you know. You can talk to him any time. All we have to do is find his signal from the Desert Otherworld.”

Something in Cecil’s mind finally seemed to click.

“Oh my god,” he said through lips slightly squished by Carlos’s hands. “Oh my god, how could I have forgotten that? Why _did_ I forget that?”

“Your mind works in mysterious ways,” Carlos admitted.

Cecil took both of his boyfriend’s hands in his, marveling for a moment at how soft and warm they were. Then he set both sets of hands on the blanket, leaning forward for a quick, minty kiss.

“You’re a genius,” he said against Carlos’s lips.

“Scientist,” the scientist corrected.

Cecil nodded and adjusted his stance so that he could rest his head on Carlos’s shoulder again.

“So, how do we go about getting in touch?” he asked. “We don’t have to go back through the Dog Park, do we? I’m not sure station management, the Secret Police, or even one of the hooded figures would be amenable to that.”

Carlos took another long drink of the quickly warming tea. “I think we could find the frequency, if we used some of the things I brought back with me.”

“You brought things back?” Cecil tried to look up at his boyfriend curiously, but only managed to get an eyeful of scruffy, tan chin.

That chin nodded, booping Cecil softly on the nose. “Yeah, just a few things. I meant it when I said I wanted to focus on more important things…” He rested one hand over Cecil’s on the blanket. “But I am a scientist after all, and it would have been less than scientifically sound to just cut off every bit of research I’d already started there.”

“Of course,” Cecil agreed, running a thumb across the top of Carlos’s hand. “So what do you have to work with then?”

“Some interesting rocks, a little odd desert sand, a handful of wires gutted from the first attempt at a radio station…”

“First attempt?” Cecil lifted his head then. “How many attempts were there?”

“I think seven before he finally got the thing broadcasting.” Carlos smiled, not at a tangible thing, but supposedly at a memory. He kept that smile as he turned to meet Cecil’s eyes. “Kevin really wanted to make sure you had a place for yourself in the Desert Otherworld when you moved in. He’d hoped the two of you could broadcast together.”

Emotions fought, metaphorically and literally, in Cecil’s stomach at the thought. It was hard to shake the long-held hatred he had for his double, the fear he’d felt when he’d first seen Kevin followed by the dread he’d felt when Kevin had returned with Strex Corp. at his back.

But he also couldn’t ignore the new feelings. The ones that had appeared when he’d heard young Kevin’s voice on the radio were just as valid as the ones he’d felt when Strex Kevin had interrupted. And old Kevin spurred something like pity, but more affectionate. Something like… hope.

“I think…” He paused, collecting his thoughts and urging his stomach to settle down. “I think we could still do that. I think it’s certainly worth a try.”

“I think you’re right,” Carlos agreed. “But first, I think you need to get some rest.”

Cecil scoffed. “You know I don’t need much sleep.”

“Did I say sleep?” Carlos set his glass down, now empty of all but a few stray mint leaves. “That’s definitely not what I meant.”

He let himself fall backwards onto the blanket, the top of his head just beyond its red-and-white checkered border landing in the grass. After a second, he tugged on Cecil’s sleeve until he, too, was laying back on the ground.

“This should be good enough,” Carlos said. He wiggled over a few inches so that his forehead was touching Cecil’s. “Just want to make sure you’re not pouting anymore when we get to work.”

“I don’t pout,” Cecil pouted.

Carlos scooted forward to kiss the pout off his face. Then, content that Cecil was content, the scientist reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of thick sunglasses.

“Did you want to go back inside?” asked Cecil, a little sad to see Carlos’s eyes disappear behind the darkened plastic.

“No, we can stay out here a little while longer. Besides, the sun looks like it’s headed vaguely downwards. It’ll probably be dark soon.”

Cecil nodded, not willing to correct his beloved scientist, who still hadn’t quite got the hang of timing sunsets in Night Vale.

The pair rolled onto their backs to look up at the sky, making sure to keep their hands entwined and the tops of their heads touching.

After a few minutes, Carlos’s hand began to twitch slightly, and Cecil realized he’d dozed off. He gave the scientist’s hand a short squeeze, then went back to staring at the sun.

If he looked hard enough, Cecil could just about see the flames flaring and jumping across the surface of the bright ball in the sky. Carlos insisted it was made up of gases flying around space, catching on fire and burning out almost immediately.

Cecil wasn’t sure he could understand that. After all, how could something so active and brilliant be lifeless gas? It wasn’t like all gas was lifeless, and the sun’s gases seemed the least lifeless of all.

Was this sun one of the suns that appeared in the sky in the Desert Otherworld? Was there another man, wearing a mockery of Cecil’s face, looking up at a similar burning star right now?

Would they be looking at the very same sun soon?

Cecil closed his eyes against the light and imagined it. Another face like his in the studio, but with a different voice entirely speaking to the same listeners. Someone else to help report the goings-on in town to investigate the weird, and the non-weird, as it occurred. Someone that Cecil could try to help, to save, to make feel at home in return for all he’d done, though Cecil had not stayed around to enjoy it.

He imagined having another partner to spend his long, but all too short life with. In response to the images his mind was conjuring, all he could think was,

“ _Neat._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. Listen. I just. Why did Cecil suddenly forget that Carlos totally knows where Kevin is?? Why could they not just hook up frequencies and learn to be besties??
> 
> (Low-key shipping this as an OT3, honestly)

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd and written in a NaNoWriMo-fueled frenzy. No idea if this is coherent, or OOC at all. Plz forgive. Or rant at me in the comments, I'll take that. 
> 
> Thank you for reading anyway~


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